


Gifted

by anais



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Disorder, Depression, Doctor John Watson, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Médicins Sans Frontières | Doctors Without Borders, Slash, There's a lot going on in this fic, public school
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-03 20:55:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anais/pseuds/anais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following a traumatic incident while volunteering in a hospital just outside of Lahore, Pakistan, John finds himself unable to return to work in a hospital in London and instead accepts a teaching position at his old school, Henley College. He finds that his recurring nightmares of the incident in Pakistan are suddenly replaced by older demons, depression and anxiety. He is fighting another and decidedly more amusing battle with his new colleague, housemaster and insufferable English teacher Sherlock Holmes, who is furious that someone so average as John Watson should be left in charge of the Henley College Gifted Students program.</p><p> <i>"You aren't gifted at all," Sherlock's voice cut through the silence, John looked up from the paper he'd been grading, a decidedly poor attempt by David Parker to label the bones of the foot.</i></p><p>  <i>"Pardon me?"</i></p><p>  <i>"You aren't 'gifted' you just work hard, it doesn't make sense to put you in charge of the gifted students, what could you possibly have to offer them? They're naturally brilliant you're just... dedicated."</i></p><p>  <i>John tried to work out how anyone could make that sound like an insult while he stared blankly and open-mouthed at Sherlock.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, a warning: there are descriptions of suicidal ideation, suicidal actions and self harm in this work. Please don't read this if that upsets you. If you are experiencing depression, suicidal thoughts or thoughts of self harm please seek help.
> 
> This is, after all, supposed to be kind of a happy story, or what passes for one in my slightly moody world.
> 
> It is rather long though - my apologies about that, it rather got away from me. It's a slow burn, too, it takes quite a while to get to the sexy things.

In school, everyone had called the room John was currently waiting in _The Antechamber_. It was the reception space that preceded the headmaster’s office residing within the oldest building on the campus. It was decorated accordingly. The chair John was dully tapping his fingers against both looked and felt like it may have been present in the school in its very first year of operation, which John was fairly certain was at some point in the 1500s. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling very much like the schoolboy he no longer was, waiting to get in trouble rather than waiting to accept a job.

Earlier in the afternoon, John had been warmed by the mixture of novelty and nostalgic pleasure that came over him as he drove up the gravel access road that spilled onto the front courtyard of Henley College. It had been an inordinately beautiful day, crisp and fresh, as the unusually warm summer began to bleed into a far more agreeable Autumn. Sitting in the somewhat dim, dust-scented antechamber, however, John was feeling rather more cold than fresh and wished absently that a little of the summer warmth might have lingered here.

With the cold came the inevitable ache in his shoulder and trepidation, which had been absent on his afternoon drive, was coiling in his stomach. He had mixed feelings about returning to Henley, and all the doubts he’d laid to rest over the summer months while he considered the post were returning to a simmer in his mind. He’d had what his mother still referred to as ‘a bit of a difficult time of it’ in sixth form, but he’d graduated with good enough marks to get into medical school in London, all that unpleasantness left behind him.

 _Well, until recently_ , his brain interjected unkindly. He consciously stopped his drumming fingers and folded his hands neatly in his lap, staring slightly wide-eyed around the room and forcing his mind onto other things. He took in the reception desk, messy and cluttered in a way John found annoying, and the several framed portraits of old headmasters that lined the walls. His mind drifted.

He had finally settled on a pleasant fantasy involving a beer at the local pub (that had been off limits and therefore practically folkloric while he was a student) and an early night when the creak of old oak and neglected hinges and a genial clearing of a throat called him back to the present.

John stood, his face arranging itself into a friendly, approachable smile. The freshly opened door had revealed two men. One was Greg Lestrade, the schools incumbent headmaster, whom John had met several times. He was wearing slacks and dress shoes and a windbreaker with the school’s crest on the pocket. He looked a little more harried than John recalled from their last encounter, which had been an informal job interview of sorts back in London. 

John was surprised to recognize the other face, though he couldn’t place a name to it. It was a peculiar sort face, John thought, but pleasant enough even through a slight scowl, and certainly memorable. John thought maybe the other man had been a few years beneath him at Henley. A vague shadow of a slender, sullen boy not yet quite comfortable with his long limbs in a slightly-too-small Henley uniform took shape in John’s mind while Greg spoke.

“Sorry about that John. I gave Helen the day off, otherwise she’d have been here to make you a cuppa, I didn’t realise my meeting with Mr Holmes would run quite so long.”

“It’s no problem,” John said quickly, grinning. He rocked forward slightly and extended a hand to Greg, who shook it firmly, “it’s good to see you again Greg. And...” John turned and offered his hand to the tall, elegantly suited man, “I’m John,” he supplied, “Nice to meet you.” 

He was rewarded with a brief, perfunctory handshake and a quirked eyebrow, “So I gathered…” a pause, “Sherlock. Well, I’ll be off then. Good chat, Lestrade. I’ll see you again, Doctor.”

John and Greg stepped into Greg’s office. John was pleasantly surprised and somewhat comforted to find that this room, at least, had been modernised and personalised for its new occupant - there was a shiny silver Mac on Greg’s desk and a decidedly unsophisticated, comfortable looking sofa in one corner decorated with large, cuddly looking cushions. John remembered the room as it had been, all Victorian parlor furniture in muted iterations of the school colours and dusty rugs threadbare with years. The newest thing in the room apart from the phone had been the portrait of John’s headmaster, Doctor Jefferson, which was blessedly missing now. John much preferred the new layout.

It wasn’t until quite some moments later, when John was settled and listening to Greg talk about the staff and the students and something he called the ‘Modern Henley Boy’ that John realised that among the very few words he’d said to Sherlock not one of them had imparted that he was a doctor.

*

John was a planner by nature, which was why he found it frustrating that his life wasn’t one that seemed to want, very often, to follow his vision of it. At twelve, he’d rather thought he’d go to university and become a doctor, find a wife somehow as that seemed the sort of thing people did, and have children and be a very rich and successful surgeon in the city.

At twenty two, he’d replaced the wife and children with a nebulous idea of ‘partner and maybe a dog’ while he finished his degree kipping (rarely) on his sister’s sofa, waiting tables and volunteering at nursing homes and shelters to pad out his job applications. At twenty-two it had been a fantasy so distant it hurt to entertain it, not that that really stopped him.

At thirty two, standing beside Greg in the dying sun and staring out at a muddy, empty field on which he’d played innumerable games of football, John felt okay, almost happy, with the most recent interruption to his life plan. He was half listening to Greg talking about his daughter’s junior football team and half thinking that maybe he’d stop planning and just let things happen, it seemed they would whatever he thought of it.

*

A year previous John had been stationed in Pakistan volunteering, for a stint, with Médicins Sans Frontiéres. He had been well overdue for a week or so of annual leave, but a combination of low staff numbers and one of the worst wet seasons in living memory had left John more or less stranded.

So John had stayed on, taking some night shifts to avoid the thick, oppressive humidity of the day. It had been nearing three in the morning and John had been sipping horrid instant coffee because somehow the staff kitchen had run out of _tea_ in _Pakistan_ and he’d been staring at but not reading a French Newspaper, since the part of his brain that could sometimes comprehend entire French sentences seemed to have shut down and gone offline.

He had been day-dreaming about going home, about escaping the ceaseless rain of the monsoon season and the old-fashioned hospital equipment and the endless demands upon his time and his comfort and his emotional stability. He had been dreaming not only of his vacation, but of the approaching end of his contract. He had been indulging in a rather long fantasy about a gleaming London hospital and his own consulting rooms when the senior nurse on duty, Joelle, rushed in. She was tall and funny and wicked and John was really quite fond of her, but she had looked a wretched sight that morning, her hands and scrubs fairly soaking in blood that John first smelt and then saw in the halogen-yellow glow of the hospital lighting, her bright eyes wild as they sought John out.

“Christ, Joelle, what’s happened?”

“Doctor Watson, I hoped you would be here. You must hasten. Amaya, a girl, seventeen, gave birth at home an hour ago. Baby healthy but she hasn’t stopped bleeding. We need you in the OR.”

John followed Joelle at a jog, listening to her rattle off observations and measures already taken as he formed a plan of action. He scrubbed in hastily as Joelle’s steady stream of words was smoothly interrupted by Jack the Handsome Australian Anaesthetist’s input beside him at the sink. 

By sunrise, John had pushed countless litres of fluids and blood, uttered variations on the word ‘fuck’ so often and so passionately that his throat was sore with it, and thrice revived Amaya. By sunrise it had become clear, to John at least, that he had Done Some Good, because the bleeding had stopped, and Amaya’s breathing was normal and her heart rate steady and strong.

Joelle had hugged him, and Jack the Handsome Australian had kissed him roughly on the cheek and slung his arm around his shoulder, and they had all laughed in exhausted relief as they cleaned up. 

“Good one, mate,” Jack whistled, “fuck me, and I thought we’d lost that one from the first. Never seen anything like that.”

John had shrugged, feeling bashful and unworthy. He hadn’t felt he’d done anything more than his job.

Joelle was staring at him with an expression John couldn’t read, “I think there is no other surgeon in this hospital who could have done this,” she gestured at Amaya, who was now, amazingly, sleeping. She had a long fight ahead of her, but John thought, if she could survive the night she’d just had, there was nothing that would stop her.

When John spoke to his coordinator that afternoon, freshly showered and relaxing in the delightful air conditioning in his otherwise tiny, uncomfortable flat, and she enquired, not for the first time, about extending his contract for another year, John hadn’t even hesitated before saying he’d stay. 

*

The downward finality that Greg’s voice had suddenly taken roused John from his reminiscences.

“Anyway, her mother wants her to quit and take another dance class on Saturday mornings so I don’t know if she’ll be playing next season.”

“Shame,” John commiserated.

Greg clapped him on the shoulder, “Ah well. Come on, let me show you to your room. You’re going to be staying in Cole, that was your old house right?”

*

Cole was the oldest of the boarding houses, of which there were eleven. It was two stories tall and sprawled slightly, a Frankenstein’s monster of a building. It had been renovated and extended many times over the course of its hundreds of years of existence, but at the heart of it was a construction of gorgeous, solid, pre-industrial brickwork and the result was somehow graceful. 

“I’ll let you settle yourself in,” Greg handed John a set of newly cut keys on a tag that bore the school crest, “You’re in 2b, to the right at the end of the hall on the second floor. Actually, the gentleman you met this afternoon is the Cole Head of House, he’s in 2a across from you. Don’t worry, his rooms are technically larger than yours but only by about a square foot in the bathroom.”

“Great, thanks Greg. I’ll see you - ” 

“Oh, there’s dinner in the staff dining room in half an hour if you’re interested. About half the staff are here, the rest are arriving tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah, ta mate. I’ll see you in a bit then,” he smiled and pocketed his keys, shook Greg’s hand, and they walked in opposite directions, Greg toward his own house, the Headmaster’s cottage, and John toward his car.

He drove around to the small designated staff parking area at the rear of the dormitory building, parked, and liberated his suitcase from the boot. He pulled the handle up and trundled it behind him, swore as it tipped over on the front stairs, and decided to sod it and carry it by the strap the remainder of the way to his lodgings.

He climbed the stairs slowly. It had been a long day. He paused on the landing, then, on a whim, set his suitcase down and turned to the left, heading to the room he’d had for his final year. It had all changed, of course – there was a new bed, a new desk and it was freshly painted, but in the faint light, the view from the window looked about the same. He blinked slowly with his head against the glass, completely unaware that he was being watched.

*

John found his way back to the staff dining room easily, deciding to embrace the slight thrill of being allowed in the staff dining room even though it was completely ridiculous (he was a Doctor, for heaven’s sake, he’d been in staff rooms before). It was hard not to adopt the mindset of his teenage self while surrounded by all these reminders of who he’d been. 

After being introduced to the staff, all of whom John was delighted to find extremely pleasant and good-natured, there was an incredible chicken soup, followed by a passable if ambitious lamb dish. The meal ended with cups of tea and a slice of sweet, mushy tea-cake that John remembered as a staple of school afternoon tea. Conversation flowed easily, and John was content to let it eddy around him. Everyone was well rested, freshly tanned and cheerful after a long summer break. 

There was a lull in conversation, and the woman next to him seemed to take a mental tally of the twenty or so teachers and administrators gathered around the table.

“Where’s the freak?” She enquired with a hint of a laugh in her voice, “I saw him this afternoon, I thought he might deign to join us at least while the kids aren’t here.”

John raised an eyebrow and turned to the woman. Sally his brain provided. They’d chatted earlier, she was head of the English department but she lived off-campus, in town, she’d come in specifically for the dinner.

“Who cares?” Came the answer from someone at the end of the table. David? Aaron? John wasn’t sure, “Can’t we just enjoy the peace and quiet?”

“At least he’s not in your department, Dave. God he’s such a nightmare. Doesn’t make lesson plans, doesn’t give a stuff about the curriculum, doesn’t actually like teaching at all, I thought he’d be gone this year.” She sighed and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, “God save me from another year with Sherlock Holmes.”

John was rubbish with names, but Sherlock was hard to miss. Holmes seemed familiar, too, now that he was hearing it for the second time that day. He recalled an email from a Mr Holmes, who, now he thought about it, was the deputy headmaster. Was that Sherlock? He thought not.

“It’s because Irene’s left,” Molly, sweet and mousy, the school nurse, volunteered. John couldn’t remember her offering anything other than a squeaked greeting since the start of the night, “He thinks M-Mike might give him a chance with the gifted students, he’s been dying to give that a go.”

This piqued John’s interest. He’d been in the Henley College Gifted Students program as a teenager, in the very first years of its formation. It had been a horrible club to belong to. Rather than the nurturing collective of like-minded and talented students John had been promised, it was a viciously competitive hive of already ostracised students bullying each other. When John was feeling particularly self indulgent, he often considered accepting his invitation into the program as one of the worst decisions of his life. After all that had happened, John was surprised to hear it still existed.

Sally snorted, “God that’s the last thing those boys need.” 

John found himself mentally agreeing. The conversation drifted on to a new topic and John, weary from a day of driving and eager to unpack, excused himself from the table. He was nearly at the threshold to Cole when he was startled out of his drowsy amble by a throat being cleared deliberately about four feet to his left.

*

“Doctor John Watson, I presume?”

John started, turned to face the darkness, “Uh… yes. Yeah. Hello, hi, sorry, mate, you gave me a bit of a… you um...you startled me,” John reached his hand blindly into the darkness and found that the hand that clasped his in return was leather-clad. The gloved appendage was attached to a man that was, John reckoned, about half a foot taller than him, perhaps more, patrician and stern in his bearing but kind about the eyes. 

“I am Mr Holmes. You may of course call me Mycroft. You wouldn’t be alone in calling me ‘Mike’ but I’d prefer you didn’t.”

“No worries, Mycroft it is,” He couldn’t imagine anyone calling this man ‘Mike’, such a thing seemed absurd, “You’re the deputy headmaster,” he remarked, and then felt stupid for the assertion.

“I am,” Mycroft agreed.

John cast his eyes at the umbrella the other man held, the tip of which rested by Mycroft’s shoe, the curve of the grip held in his hand like a gentleman’s cane, and it tugged vaguely at something in the back of his consciousness, “Are we expecting rain?”

“Ah, no,” Mycroft chuckled in response and offered nothing else by way of explanation. A moment of uncomfortable silence ensued. John found himself clearing his throat.

“I didn’t see you at dinner,” he finally commented, “Did you just get in?”

Mycroft seemed to consider this, looking up for a moment, “Yes, in a manner of speaking. I took tea in town, but I will be dining with you tomorrow night.”

“Great, I look forward to it.”

“As, indeed, do I,” Mycroft was looking at John expectantly, and it was beginning to make John uncomfortable. He felt not unlike a boy who had been caught out of bed, as if he were awaiting the pronouncement of some punishment or remonstrance. 

“Well… if that’s… I was just heading to bed,” John managed by way of attempt at escaping the increasingly uncomfortable interaction.

“Very good. I am glad to have caught you though, John, I have a proposal for you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes. I think you are aware that we have, at Henley College, a rather notable gifted students program.”

John cleared his throat. Did he imagine the weight behind Mycroft’s words? He wondered what the other man might know about him, and found himself unsettled.

“Oh, um… yeah, yes, I was part of the original group of boys the year they started it up, actually.”

“Quite so. Well, our managing tutor for the program has gone and taken maternity leave on us, and I haven’t as yet been able to find a replacement for her. With the start of term approaching so fast, I was wondering if you might consider the role? You don’t have to decide straight away, of course, but there is a slight pay advantage involved and I’m told it’s very rewarding.”

John thought about it a moment. He had deep and abiding reservations about the offer, it seemed bizarrely malicious, although John thought he was probably imagining that. He nodded, “I’ll consider it,” he finally said, measuredly, “I’d like to get settled a bit. But I’ll consider it.”

Mycroft inclined his head in acceptance and reached beneath his arm, his umbrella hanging from his wrist. He produced a folder that John had failed to notice. He passed it to John, “Here’s a little reading material for you.”

With that, Mycroft took his leave. John made his way up to his rooms at the end of the second-floor corridor of the house and set about unpacking, casting glances at the unassuming folder as he went about methodically sorting his drawers and cupboard space. Finally, he made his bed, showered and brushed his teeth and lay down. Sleep claimed him quickly.


	2. Chapter Two

_The soggy, filthy cotton of John’s too-thin summer socks was sagging around his ankles. Why wasn’t he wearing the wool ones? His feet were freezing, burning and aching. He vaguely regretted his lack of shoes, and then, with some frustration, he wondered why it should matter at all – nothing else did._

_He stumbled over an exposed root and, interrupted from his mechanical forward momentum, he stopped. The world sped on, dizzying and terrible. A pained groan slipped from John’s lips._

_He reached blindly to his left, staggering from his path until his hand fell against a tree. Rough, damp bark imparted a gritty residue to his fingers. He tumbled sideways against the unyielding bulk beside him and half-slid, half-fell to the ground. He wrapped his arms around the tree and pressed his face into it, his eyes falling closed as he breathed deeply of the scent of rich, living wood._

_After some indeterminate passing of minutes John turned his head from the tree and opened his eyes. He watched his breath, uneven crystalline whorls ripping hot and harsh from his torn throat and becoming solid in the freezing air. The world had slowed sufficiently for John to relinquish his grip on the tree. He turned his back to it._

_With clumsy, thick fingers he grasped at his own right wrist, twisting his watch and squinting at it through the darkness. It was only ten past midnight, he’d been walking for maybe three hours but it didn’t feel far enough, nor long enough. His whole body had begun to shake, he was cold and numb and every part of him was sore and it was not enough to drown out the roar of the aching black hole in his chest._

_He dug his heels into the leaf litter beneath him and pushed until he was sitting straight upright. He shoved his hand into his trouser pocket and took three deep, shuddering breaths. He could feel hot tears on his cheeks. His clothes were sodden and heavy with water, though John couldn’t remember when it rained, if it rained. His fingers closed around his goal, an unyielding plastic tube. He’d taken it from his mother’s medicine cabinet during the short break. He’d only meant it to be a promise to himself, a last resort. But here he was. The bottle had leached some of the warmth from his body, it felt solid and promising._

_He worked the cap off with hands that felt like gloves filled with ice water. He didn’t hesitate to take thick, bitter mouthfuls of pills. He chewed them and spilled them and gagged on them, but he hadn’t even emptied the bottle before he felt his grip on reality slipping._

_John’s eyes fell shut, and then fluttered open, and John was on a beach. He wasn’t sure how he got there. He was quite certain he’d been lying beneath a tree in the sprawling woodland that backed onto the school grounds._

_It was still night, but when John looked up he could see the moon and the stars instead of leaves and clouds. He couldn’t see the ocean, but he could hear the vicious tide roaring in his ears and sense great black waves rolling ever closer. They had already claimed his feet. He closed his eyes and let the water take him. It didn’t take long, and for that he was grateful._

*

_John woke briefly as the sun rose and began to warm and dry him. His eyes ached with the light, and a fat slobbery beagle was licking his cheek. A distorted, sideways voice was yelling words at John that he couldn’t understand, but John didn’t mind the dog._

_“Shhh,” he whispered to his new beagle friend, using all his strength to clumsily catch the dog’s sodden paw against his chest with one hand for a moment. The movement anchored him briefly, but he could hear already the roaring tide, distant and insistent. He slipped back under._

*

_John woke again in crisp, clean sheets that smelt off starch and disinfectant and faintly of bleach. He didn’t open his eyes. He could tell without looking that it was his mother’s thin fingers piecing through his hair. He could smell her perfume and feel her wedding ring pull here and there. He pushed his head slightly into the warmth of her hand._

_Slowly, John came aware of his body. It felt starved and spent. John thought perhaps he’d had his tonsils out, and remembered that last time he had been allowed to eat a simply extraordinary amount of ice-cream. And then he thought that he was pretty sure you could only have your tonsils out once, so maybe he was there for something else, some other part of him had been removed. Never mind. He trusted Doctors, he was going to be one. He trusted his mother and the hiss-click-woosh disinfectant scented air._

_The distant twitter of trilling crickets was beginning to get annoying though. It seemed to be getting louder and more insistent and it occurred to John that they were in the room with him. He tried to open his eyes, but they seemed to be gummed shut. He reached upwards, groping for his mother’s hand in his hair, but he pulled away with only a handful of squirming, chirping bodies. He started to scream, but there was no sound but that of the bugs. They filled his mouth, chirring infernally, louder and louder and louder and -_

*

John woke for the third time drenched in sweat and gasping. He was no longer seventeen, but thirty two, and his alarm was chirping impetuously from his phone. He made a mental note to change it as he reached blindly to swipe it off.

He caught his breath and groaned, rolling onto his side. He yawned broadly and then rolled onto his side, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. It isn’t a surprise – or it shouldn’t be – that he would dream of that today. He was back at Henley, it was bound to dredge some memories. It was actually kind of a surprise to John that he was dreaming of that night and not the more recent trauma, the reason he’d found himself at Henley at all. The sudden mental image of the tipped hospital bed and himself crouched behind it didn’t help him. He swallowed hard, finding it is more difficult than he would have liked to vanquish the uncomfortable weight of the dream from his mind.

*

After showering and dressing, John felt markedly better. His second day at Henley was to be spent in planning meetings, first with the head of Science, and secondly a shorter meeting with the head of Maths. He’d be taking mostly science classes for the fifth and sixth form boys, but he was also handling a couple of junior classes in maths to cover a small scheduling conflict. 

As the day passed in a comfortable, modern classroom, John felt increasingly confident. Every new piece of information or word of advice added to his hopefulness for the year upcoming. He liked both his new bosses immensely – in fact, he quite liked everything about the job he’d encountered so far. He left the last meeting of the afternoon with armfuls of folders, new textbooks and a small stack of loose notes printed in his own compact hand. 

A graphics calculator he’d borrowed from one of the other maths tutors was balancing rather precariously on top of his large pile books, so John picked his way carefully toward his room. It was his bad luck and slightly wonky balance that sent it tumbling to the ground when a low voice rumbled behind him, “Do you need a hand there?”

John spun on his heel, losing another folder as he went. Over the top of his newly divested pile he could see the thin, elegantly arranged features of Sherlock Holmes.

“Er… no. Well I mean, I didn’t. Now I do… so… yes.”

Sherlock quirked a perfectly manicured eyebrow and said nothing, but seemed to try on a thin smile that settled theatrically on his plump, exquisite lips. He bent to retrieve the (thankfully, undamaged) calculator and the green ‘Introduction to Algebra’ folder.

“We’re going the same way,” Sherlock took two more folders and a textbook from John’s arms and they fell into step toward Cole, “so it’s no trouble.”

To John’s ear, Sherlock’s words sounded strained and clumsy, as if they weren’t familiar to his elegant mouth. 

With a raised eyebrow, John nodded, wondering vaguely why he was spending so much of the conversation staring at Sherlock’s (frankly delightfully formed) mouth, “Great, thanks. So we didn’t really get to chat yesterday. I’m the new senior science teacher.”

“Oh, really?” Sherlock asked, feigning ignorance of John’s position with about as much believability as his offer of help a few moments earlier. John’s thoughtful consideration of Sherlock’s (pink, full, bowed, delicate) lips was replaced with some concern about why this conversation felt so layered and tense. He thought of the other Holmes man. He wondered if they were related.

“Yeah, really,” John deadpanned, “What about you then?”

Sherlock looked surprised to have been asked, “I teach…” he paused, with a look of some disdain, “English and Literature,” he tilted a shoulder up in a gesture John registered as ‘defeat’.

“Lovely, what’s on the syllabus for first term then?”

Sherlock pursed his lips and squared his shoulders, “Sally would have me teach the fourth form pupils ‘Romeo and Juliet’ this term, as a warm up for ‘Macbeth’ later in the year.”

John suspected from Sherlock’s once again sterling attempt at subtlety that the other man had actually no intention of following Sally’s proposed lesson plans. He made a noise of commiseration and refrained from commenting, though privately he too thought ‘Romeo and Juliet’ was a ridiculous choice for the fifth form boys. 

They reached Cole, and John navigated the steps with care, still slightly overburdened. He manoeuvred the key out of his pocket by pressing his folders and books against the wall. He pushed the door open and dumped the pile on his desk for sorting later in the evening, “You can just – “ 

“I wanted to ask you if –“

John smiled, “what was that?”

“Well… actually… I uh… I heard that you were considering taking on the gifted students program.”

John glanced unconsciously to the folder sitting on his bedside table and nodded in concession, “Yeah actually – the deputy headmaster – um – Mycroft? Suggested I take it on because I was in the program while I was here, I think, so I kind of have an idea of what it’s about.”

Sherlock’s expression darkened minutely, “Hm. Yes,” Sherlock placed the graphics calculator down beside John’s teetering pile, and passed John the folder directly, “The thing is… gosh, I’ve had my hand up for that role for ages now and I was just really hoping with Irene gone I’d be up, and I think if you passed it up he might give me a go… I mean I so hate to seem like I’m asking, but I just thought if it would sway you in one direction or the other, well…”

Sherlock’s expression was the picture of open, honest earnestness and John wasn’t fooled for a second. This display of uncertain pandering was so distinct from the man he’d met in Greg’s office, and distant even from the man who’d accompanied for most of the walk back to the dorm. He felt a little put off by the display.

“Listen mate if you’re after the position you only have to ask. I wasn’t so sure I’d take it on anyway, I’ll have a word to Mycroft when I see him,” He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, “Thanks for the help. Cheers.”

Sherlock, for his part, did at least seem chastened by John’s reaction to his attempt at deception, “It was really… no problem.”

John was struck by the apparent sincerity of Sherlock’s response. He smiled genuinely, “Great… so um… oh are you coming to dinner in the staff room tonight?”

“Not really my thing,” Sherlock shrugged. John noticed that his hand was still on Sherlock’s shoulder. He dropped it to his side.

“No worries, well, I’ll see you around here then.”

Sherlock nodded once and turned on his heel. He took a step out of John’s room and John was reaching for the door when Sherlock turned around.

“John, would you accompany me into town for dinner?”

“Hm? Why?” The question slipped out before John could stop it and John wondered where it had come from, “I mean, sorry, it’s been a long day. Yes, that would be… lovely. Haven’t been into town yet.”

Sherlock was giving John a curious, searching look, “I’ll meet you in the carpark at 6:30. You’ll have to drive, I haven’t a car.”

John closed the door, amused and pensive. With an hour and a half in hand, he put away his new books and arranged his papers. He considered taking another shower, then dismissed the thought. It wasn’t a date, he knew that, just dinner with a new friend, a new colleague. John was just nervous around new people, especially when they were ridiculously handsome. That was natural.

In concession to his neurotic tendencies, John switched his shirt for a fresh one. It was new, he’d picked it up in London only a few days before he’d driven into Henley. He tugged it on slowly over his undershirt, then found a dark green cardigan, very resolutely not thinking about any handsome Australian doctors who may have told him the dark green one made him look distinguished.

*

“Alright, John? You were supposed to be off like fifty hours ago,” Jack had swaggered past him with a grin and a bottle of water, heading in the direction of the staff lockers. John and Jack had forged a comfortable friendship based around watching the cricket and complaining about being unable to get a beer. They had also, fortuitously, discovered a mutual passion for blowjobs, which had turned out to be a life saving way to relieve stress.

“Running on fumes, mate,” John had grinned at Jack, “you off then?”

“Yeah, not much for me to do now, pretty much everyone’s sorted and I don’t actually remember what my bed looks like so I thought I’d go and find out.”

John chuckled warmly, “I thought I’d stay, see out the night. Joelle’s on triage and she’s giving me the fun ones, then I’m off till next week,” he shrugged.

Jack winked, “Well don’t work too hard. We still on for cricket on Sunday?”

“See you then.”

Typically, John had worked first shift on Friday, and was rarely around after six, but on that Friday, the one that would turn out to be his last in Pakistan, a roof collapse at a local apartment building flooded Emergency with dozens more patients than usual. Most of those John had seen were no worse than shocked, though he treated a few bad concussions and a handful of broken bones in the course of the evening. 

He had heard the first shot while palpating the abdomen of a boy no older than nine who had been passing by the apartment as it collapsed. The boy’s tearful, dust-coated mother had told Joelle he’d had a bad fall and been lost for about twenty minutes in the confusion. He was slightly feverish and listless and complaining of pain in his chest and stomach.

At the sound of the shot, the boy had pushed up against John’s hand and gripped at John’s arm. The controlled hum of the always-busy emergency room swelled to a chaotic cacophony of screams and panicked yelling. The boy shot John a rapid query in Urdu, his eyes wide and fearful. The phrase was too fast for John to fully comprehend, but he had picked up the gist of it and muttered in his own broken Urdu-English hybrid that it was probably fine, but for the boy to stay put and keep quiet while he checked it out.

Then there had been a scream and another shot. The sound was unmistakable, though John had only ever heard it in the past on cop shoes and in films. John had picked up the boy and moved him under the examination table, whispering frantically for him not to move, not to make a sound.

He had pushed past the examination table and tugged the heavy blue fabric of the privacy curtain slightly apart. From this limited view toward the nurses desk, he had only been able to see two beds – two patients, a nurse and an orderly. 

John’s heart had fallen to his stomach when he saw that the orderly (he searched for a name in his frantic mind and settled on ‘Waqar’) had silent tears trekking from wide brown eyes, his mouth open and forming silent words. John remembered thinking he might be praying.

John took a step forward, turning his head. His heart caught in his chest. His eyes had locked on Joelle’s, wide open but unseeing. Without a thought to his own safety, forgetting the gunman, forgetting everything except Joelle – his friend, his companion, sweet, funny Joelle – John ran forward. He pushed an empty bed down onto its side behind him, shielding him from behind though he had no idea if it would be enough. He pulled Joelle’s hand from her side and pressing one of his own against her wound. His other hand found her neck, pushing her head scarf out of his way and pressed in. No pulse. Not breathing. 

John had been trying to move Joelle’s unwieldy body onto her back, thinking maybe there was still time, still a chance to resuscitate her, when the sound and the colour had been sucked from the room.

*

John wasn’t sure what possessed him to say yes to Sherlock, but he was regretting it keenly as he leaned against his car. 6:30 had come and gone, along with it any lingering warmth from the day. John tugged his cardigan a little tighter, his eyes flicking impatiently at his watch. He wondered how long to wait, willing himself not to feel as if he were being stood up.

It had rounded on 7:00 when John’s hope and patience wore out. He had decided, during his half hour contemplating his options, that he’d drive into town himself – he didn’t feel like facing the rest of the staff in the mood he was in, and he could do with a beer. He was starting the car when a tap on the passenger window caught his attention. He sighed heavily, asked himself what the fuck he was doing, and reached over to press the door open.

“You’re a bit late,” he muttered.

Sherlock slid into the passenger seat dressed in the same suit John had seen him in earlier. He had an entrenched and distracted scowl etched deep on his features.

“I was held up,” he said by way of explanation, offering no apology as he turned an appraising eye on John.

John started the car and they proceeded in silence. Though John was annoyed and Sherlock clearly perturbed by something, it was a comfortable quiet that passed between them. They were halfway into town before John thought to talk again.

“I have a question for you, actually.”

“Oh?”

“The other day, in Greg’s office, you called me Doctor. How’d you know?”

“Oh, that. Nothing theatrical I’m afraid, I was reading Greg’s planner while he was being boring.”

“Ah,” well, that was that, although John felt a little disappointed at the simple resolution of the mystery.

“I can do better than that,” Sherlock mentioned with some dark humour behind the words. John had parked and they were stepping out of the car.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. You’re a medical doctor. Obviously. You trained in London. Your mother could only afford the tuition at Henley because of the substantial scholarship grant you received.”

John widened his eyes in surprise. Sherlock was holding the door to one of the cookie-cutter gastro pubs that had so recently sprung up in every small town in England. They were seated quickly. Sherlock looked uncertain about something.

“I could go on….”

“Do.”

“You returned from somewhere in South Asia about six months ago based on the brand of the slacks you were wearing yesterday, the quality of cotton in your sheets and the faint but lingering tan lines at your wrist and neck. You had a professional role there, so probably you were working as a doctor but you sustained a prohibitive injury – you rely on your non-dominant hand and you have accepted a role far below your training despite being young, healthy and mentally capable.”

“That was incredible,” John whistled low and appreciative, picking up the menu and glancing at it, then back up at Sherlock.

“I…” Sherlock’s lips twitched, “didn’t expect you to say that. It was nothing. Simple deductions and some lucky chance information I recently came across about south Asian textiles.”

“Why – why were you researching South Asian textiles?”

“Well, that’s a much longer story.” 

They caught each other’s eye, and suddenly John was laughing and so was Sherlock, a low, warm-honey chuckle that made John warm from his fingers to his chest.


End file.
